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In March, 2022, the people living in Lakeside Park Estates mobile-home park, in Hollywood, Florida, learned that they were being evicted. The park’s owner, Trinity Broadcasting Network, had decided to shut it down. In many cases, tenants owned their homes, but they didn’t own the land they sat on. The residents—most of whom were low-income, many of whom were elderly—had until the end of the year to figure out where to go next. “Last Days on Lake Trinity,” Charlotte Cooley’s patient yet enraging short film, follows three women—Nancy Sanderson, Nancy Fleishman, and Laurie Laney—as they navigate the subsequent months of uncertainty and upheaval. It’s an intimate portrait of the downstream effects of corporate greed and the housing crisis, made more acute by the fact that the landlord in this case is the largest religious-television network in the world.

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Early in Cooley’s film, one of her subjects invokes a common stereotype of trailer parks—that they are trashy places filled with trashy people. The film, which is lit by soft seaside light, paints a different picture: residents tend their small yards, ride bikes with their friends, and watch ibises fly low over a lake. For Laney, a free spirit with long hair, the park signifies independence; she scoffs at her evicted neighbors who opt to move into condos. For Sanderson, a sweet-natured woman who struggles with her memory, the park is a source of care and community, and somewhere her friends can keep an eye on her. Fleishman worked for Trinity on and off for two decades; now the company she credits with saving her soul is putting her out. “They said they were going to help us relocate and they haven’t,” she says. “And when I call them for assistance they don’t respond.”

The spectre of homelessness looms as the women petition Hollywood’s city council for help and get quotes for apartments they can’t afford. They remain remarkably hopeful in the face of setbacks; you get the sense that this is not the first time these women have faced a seemingly insurmountable obstacle. “Maybe I’ll love it,” Sanderson, who is facing a potential move to Pennsylvania, says. “Being in the snow, making a snowman.” But her eyes betray her fear at leaving behind her routines and relationships; one of the great sadnesses of the film is watching Sanderson’s bright smile dim as the months progress and her options for escape narrow. The three women’s struggles stand in for a much larger problem: the housing-affordability crisis has been particularly hard on older Americans—people older than fifty are the fastest-growing unhoused age group.

As the months tick by, demolition crews crowd the park and Laney sells most of what she owns at a swap meet. She tells Cooley about a dream she had, months earlier, about a ficus tree. “All these branches with all these leaves and all these birds had been cut off,” she said. “All the branches and fingers of life were gone.” She woke up from the nightmare in a sweat. That day, the eviction notice arrived.

Nick Fuentes, a far-right streamer who first got national attention after he attended the Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, has recently made another reëntry into the national discourse, after he was interviewed, late last month, by Tucker Carlson. From one point of view, Fuentes is simply the latest in an increasingly long line of internet-coded demagogues who have threatened to tear the Republican Party apart and take it in a darker, more bigoted direction. Much has already been written about Fuentes’s appearance on “The Tucker Carlson Show,” and what it signals about the state of the right. If someone as prominent and connected as Carlson was willing to platform Fuentes—a white nationalist, misogynist, and antisemite who has expressed admiration for Adolf Hitler and skepticism about the Holocaust—what does that mean for the future of the Republican Party?

These are certainly questions worth asking as the right mulls its potential post-Trump options, and they are being hashed out by those who hope to shape the movement’s future. (The influential Heritage Foundation, for instance, is currently at war with itself, after its president defended Carlson’s interview with Fuentes.) But there are other questions we need to ask, too. When we consider a figure like Fuentes, we have to grapple with his seemingly outsized popularity. Is he unearthing a population of young men who have always felt the way he does? Or is he someone whose clout actually depends on attention from those with wider audiences—from Carlson, yes, but also from people like me, in the national press? Put differently, is he simply the streaming era’s version of the largely inconsequential Richard Spencer, another white nationalist and avatar of the alt-right (the term already feels dated), who titillated the media more than a decade ago? And if Fuentes is truly managing to build a significant audience outside those mainstream channels, how is he doing so?

When it comes to broadcasting, each medium demands a particular set of talents, even if what we see, as viewers, looks more or less the same. At a very basic level, what Fuentes does in his videos isn’t that different from what Jon Stewart does on “The Daily Show,” what Sean Hannity does on “The Sean Hannity Show,” or, for that matter, what Walter Cronkite did on “CBS Evening News.” These are all men in suits behind desks talking into a camera about what’s happening in America. Cronkite was appointment viewing in a media environment that had only three major news networks. He was genuinely talking to the nation, and that demanded both gravitas and dispassion. Cable news, with its twenty-four-hour schedule and abundance of competition, required a new type of showman, one who could stand out amid the endless sameness of CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, and so on. Hannity, Carlson, Bill O’Reilly, Keith Olbermann, and Rachel Maddow became the masters of this form in large part by repeating partisan talking points with a touch more energy and style than the rest, leavened by an occasional well-timed, passionate outburst. You were rarely going to hear anything terribly unexpected on their shows, nor were you likely to pick up the pulse of where either party was headed in the future. In some respects, these programs had more in common with “The Oprah Winfrey Show” than with the early iterations of broadcast news. Here was a person you could watch every day who would reassure you that your life and your opinions had meaning. Their rants might have offended traditionalists who preferred the old days of stern journalism, but there was a warmth to their performances. Here I am, they seemed to say, fighting the good fight for you.

In the past few years, political streamers such as Fuentes—or Dean Withers, say, a shaggy-haired, twenty-one-year-old liberal who typically argues with Trump supporters—have cultivated more specific but sometimes larger audiences by doing away with the warmth and the reassurances of their cable-news predecessors. Instead, they wade directly into video combat. Withers came to prominence, in part, by debating the late Charlie Kirk, who made a name for himself by challenging everyone, including his fellow-conservatives, to debates. The liberal streamer known as Destiny is also constantly debating seemingly anyone who will submit to two hours of free-flowing on-camera argument, from campus activists to the historian Norman Finkelstein. All these viral debate streamers are similar to one another, even if they come from opposite sides of the aisle. They are overwhelmingly men, they talk very fast, and they mostly seek out easy wins against those whom they can back into a corner.

The practice of debating other content creators goes back at least to the early days of YouTuber “beef,” in the late two-thousands, when creators would use the platform’s “video response feature” to call out other YouTubers with big followings, thereby creating a network effect—the fans of that other creator would now be aware of this combative upstart. Streaming now allows for multiple hosts to appear together, as if they were on a big, unpleasant Zoom call, and so political creators can now feed off these network effects by bickering with one another in real time. The chat function on streaming platforms, which allows viewers to submit questions or to spam slurs or cryptocurrency advice, creates an easy Q. & A. feature: a streamer can sit back and answer questions for hours without having to plan. These tactics drive considerable engagement, but they tend to be insular and parochial—largely indecipherable to normies and the old.

Fuentes has done his share of debate-mongering and engagement-baiting, and he still spends a good portion of each show slouched in his chair, answering questions from his chat with a tone of contempt. But his recent prominence owes something to a kind of formal synthesis—one that almost certainly would have gained traction with or without Carlson’s help. Unlike the leftist streamer Hasan Piker, who usually wears tank tops and streams in bad lighting from a messy room, Fuentes presents himself as a throwback. He generally wears a suit, uses warm lighting, and sits at an empty desk. In his viral clips, he scrunches his face and screams in a thick Chicago accent. (He sounds like a recurring character on “Roseanne”—maybe one of Darlene’s most regrettable dates.) Although his register only really hits two notes (angry or annoyed), he is uncannily precise with his language, even when it is profane or bigoted.

He also, it must be said, has a kind of comic talent that has surely contributed to his popularity. Imagine if Andy Rooney was extremely racist, even more theatrically grumpy, and did edgy, Al Bundy-esque bits about how every right-winger who believes in “ancestral diets” needs to commit suicide, or how A.I.-powered sex robots promise a future in which every lonely male who is already addicted to pornography no longer has to deal with real women. This, Fuentes says in his segment, will force women back into “mending clothes” and learning to cook. Then, with a smirk, he adds, “You know what they’re going to do? Male sex robots. That’s why we have to cut their welfare. Then they can’t afford one.” He goes on to claim that he’s just joking, of course, but the gross underlying assumptions get through—and, within the rant, there is a glimmer of actual insight about the coming A.I. industry, which Fuentes says will only be profitable in two spheres, weapons and pornography.

Through his nightly rants, Fuentes defines his movement: disaffected young white men who have fallen into all the traps of the modern predatory economy, but who regard themselves as more serious than the terminally online “rightoids” who go on about Western civilization and meat-based diets or spend all day freaking out about trans people. (These distinctions are blurry and conditional; Fuentes also seems to hate his followers—he’s at his funniest when insulting them.) In a recent episode, while talking about more traditional conservatives who warn young men not to embrace white nationalism, Fuentes said, “These kumbaya boomers, we reject your ideology. We are going back to history.” He went on to say that this old style of conservatism, which stressed race-blind thinking and warned against white identity politics, was “bullshit,” and ended by saying, “Your country-club conservatism, maybe that works out in Martha’s Vineyard. Maybe it works where you people live, but it doesn’t work out here in the streets.”

Part of what separates Fuentes from his fellow-streamers is that he is capable of keeping his thoughts in a coherent, if odious, order. He once offered a trollish, occasionally captivating, and always grossly bigoted hour-long act; that has evolved into something more like a daily address, one that presents a code of behavior and a set of distinct ideas. As recently as a year ago, I’m not sure I could have told you what Fuentes thought about anything outside of his hatred of minorities, gays, and Jewish people. Today, he has developed a vile but discernible vision for the U.S.—something few of his predecessors in the role of far-right boogeyman have been able to do.

Fuentes’s narrative about the U.S.’s current state of affairs begins in a familiarly reprehensible place. Jewish oligarchs, he claims, have bought America, and now control every politician, media outlet, and lever of power. These same oligarchs, in Fuentes’s account, have launched a campaign to smother all criticism of Israel. As proof, Fuentes will point to TikTok, and theorize that big money in politics pushed legislation against that platform, precipitating its sale to Larry Ellison, an ardent supporter of Israel, who will now, Fuentes believes, change the app’s algorithms to suppress pro-Palestinian content. This same group of oligarchs, Fuentes argues, are behind mass migration to the U.S.—this is one of the main tropes of the “great replacement” theory, a racist conspiracy that seemed to motivate many of the young men who attended the rally in Charlottesville, years ago—and have impinged on the sovereignty and livelihoods of white men by pushing for open borders. Fuentes has always had awful things to say about Black people and immigrants, but his recent turn has basically cast them as pawns in the oligarchs’ game.

Crucially, Fuentes has become one of Donald Trump’s most ardent critics on the right. He repeatedly tells a story about a nation of young men in flyover country who believed that Trump would realize a new vision of America and who now have been betrayed. These young men, as Fuentes put it recently, are looking at China and the United Arab Emirates and asking why America couldn’t build “world wonders” and “peaceful” cities. Their interest in MAGA was both industrial and quasi-socialist: they believed that Trump would drain the swamp and bring new legislators to Washington, D.C., who would restore manufacturing jobs, and that America, a failing empire, would “draft” people like them, devastated by poverty and the opioid epidemic and general aimlessness, back to work. All that was a lie, Fuentes now says. Trump has been in or around the heart of political power for more than a decade, and, according to Fuentes, is a sellout who has been bought by the oligarchy. Only Fuentes is willing to put America first.

In the opening column for Fault Lines, in 2024, I wrote about the ideology of the internet, which, put simply, is “kill the mods.” If you want to get traction online, you have to rail against the moderators—who are, you might insist, being paid off to suppress your dangerous speech. Tucker Carlson, in his latest iteration, on Elon Musk’s X, has fully grasped this. Broadcasting online, rather than on Fox News, is a signal of integrity: Here I am at my most uncensored. This version of Carlson comes with an inherent defiance and an implied challenge to the mainstream media industry that made him a star: I can do this without all of you. Fuentes similarly understands that he cannot be censored out of existence. He has been banned from nearly every platform—he currently streams on something called Rumble—but he knows that his fans, whom he calls Groypers, will dutifully clip his most impassioned moments and spread them to the mainstream.

In the past, the hard right was constrained, in a way, by its fealty to Trump. What Fuentes has done is deem Trump a mod. It hardly needs to be said that Fuentes’s story about America relies on some of the oldest antisemitic tropes there are. But he has also crafted, in the past few months, a call to action, one that needs to be taken more seriously than anything promulgated by his predecessors in the alt-right, who were mostly meme-addicted losers trying to troll the media. Fuentes recently criticized a student in Mississippi who made national headlines by going up to Dave Portnoy, the founder of Barstool Sports, throwing some coins on the ground, and yelling, “Fuck the Jews.” The act was “rude,” Fuentes said, and not reflective of the behavior that he wants to promote; it would make his own antisemitic movement look bad. What he wants, essentially, is message control. He asked his followers to focus on their supposed winning arguments, such as the one about how Ellison’s purchase of TikTok will suppress free speech. Fuentes has also called for the Groypers to start preparing for the 2028 election so they can defeat J. D. Vance if and when he runs for President, because Fuentes considers him a tool of the oligarchy. Fuentes recently asked his followers, “Where do you see yourself in three years?” He added, “I want to see you guys in Iowa, I want to see you in New Hampshire, I want to see you in Nevada and South Carolina. I want to see you on Super Tuesday.” He told his online army that, even if they lose in 2028, they should get ready for 2032 and onward. “Look at Pat Buchanan,” he said. “He ran in 1992. He didn’t see his vision realized until 2016—twenty-four years later. Are you ready to go until 2040, until 2050?”

Right-wing agitators are typically cheap and quickly disposable. Milo Yiannopoulos, Richard Spencer, and the Twitter personality, podcaster, and self-published author Bronze Age Pervert—these men have largely come and gone, and though their influence can be detected in D.C., their demagoguery failed to become much more than a cloying desire to freak out the libs. Fuentes is something different, I believe, in large part because he seems to understand that all norms in political commentary have been destroyed and the game is now to position yourself in opposition to anything that even sniffs of the establishment. This is directly connected to the medium that has aided his rise, and it should worry us even more than it already does. After all, how do you stop something like this without turning off the internet? ♦

A puzzling clue leads Heidi to a new witness. His story about a phone call made from inside Whitehouse Farm on the morning of the crime threatens the entire case against Jeremy Bamber.

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The average human receives two hundred and seventy text messages a day. Sounds crazy, right? I hope so, because I made that number up.

But here’s a fact: it’s impossible to answer every text that you receive immediately. Life is busy. Either you’re looking up directions to the nearest Burlington Coat Factory or you’re perusing an actor’s IMDB page to see what show you recognize them from. It’s usually one of those two things.

We need automatic replies to common texts—sort of like out-of-office e-mails that let the people sending you texts know why we won’t be replying in a timely manner. Here are some automatic replies to cover all the reasons you can’t text back right now:

“Thanks for your text. I am currently driving to pick up pizza for the second time this week. This wasn’t the plan. I told my partner to take the chicken out of the freezer when they got home from work last night, but apparently happy hour was more important.”

“Appreciate you reaching out. I will get back to you as soon as I figure out whose unsaved number this is.”

“I am unable to respond right now. I’m watching the game on an illegal streaming site and the stream finally stopped buffering. I can’t jinx it. And, yes, I will send you your money if and when my team loses.”

“Hi, unfortunately, I can’t text at the moment. I’ve misplaced my phone. It’s either between the sofa cushions or in the other room. Honestly, can you call me? I need my phone to vibrate so that I can find it. Thanks for your help.”

“What’s up? You texted me at the worst time. I’m in an emergency work meeting. It’s not looking good. This is basically my third strike with the manager. I’m so cooked. I’ll get back to you after I learn my fate. Feel free to send job postings in the meantime.”

“I’m drunkkkk. I know, it’s only 2 P.M., but bottomless brunch was nooo joke. I’ll hit you up after my nap. Also, after I eat my leftover eggs Benedict—mmm.”

“I will never text back. You’re not real. You’re spam. Cut it out. I don’t have time for this. And don’t bother calling, either. I’ll decline that, too. You’re NEVER getting my money, so go find another sucker.”

“I’m scrolling TikTok and I’m a thousand per cent sure that your text is not better than my TikTok algorithm.”

“My kid has my phone and they’re destroying my battery. They’ve had it for an hour. I don’t even know what they’re doing on it, but they’re finally quiet. I can’t ruin this peace. Thanks for your patience.”

“Help! I ran into a friend’s ex at the grocery store and they are currently chatting with me even though my headphones are in. Call me A.S.A.P. so I can walk away. This is urgent.” ♦

It seems we can’t get enough of game shows in which the losers die. “The Hunger Games” became a multibillion-dollar media franchise over the past decade, with audiences returning to the theatre, time and time again, to watch adolescents try to kill one another in an enormous arena—a contest devised by the leaders of a society rife with inequality. Netflix’s “Squid Game” followed four hundred and fifty-six desperate individuals into an underworld where they play lethal versions of children’s games in the hope of winning a life-changing amount of money. Four weeks after its release, the show had become Netflix’s most-watched series ever; to date, the first season has been viewed more than two hundred and sixty-five million times. The show’s success in America can partly be chalked up to a love of games—though the game show isn’t a uniquely American phenomenon, the modern game show, as we know it, was developed in the U.S. But this subgenre, specifically—fictional content about people who put their lives on the line for large sums of money—also feeds into a fantasy of financial escape, in which upward mobility is as simple as winning a few challenges. Arguably, this desire to get rich quick, or to instantly free oneself of debt, is also one of the driving forces behind today’s online-gambling phenomenon. But, if you lose a bet, you have to deal with the fallout. In the world of the death game show, losing is its own form of escape.

“The Running Man,” from the director Edgar Wright, is the latest attempt to capitalize on American appetites for financial escape via an elaborate, deadly game. The film stars Glen Powell as Ben Richards, a construction worker who can’t hold down a job because of his tendency to mouth off to his bosses and whistle-blow about working conditions. His wife, Sheila (Jayme Lawson), works in a seedy bar. Richards, who is desperate for funds in order to take care of the couple’s seriously ill infant daughter, volunteers as a “Runner”—a participant in a televised game show that involves being relentlessly pursued, both by professional “Hunters” and ordinary people, for thirty days. If he survives, he’ll receive a billion dollars.

Wright’s movie, which is based on a 1982 novel by Stephen King, is a more faithful adaptation than the previous film version, directed by Paul Michael Glaser, from 1987. That “Running Man” starred Arnold Schwarzenegger as Richards, who isn’t a hotheaded construction worker but rather an army captain in an authoritarian state, who becomes a Runner in order to win back his freedom after being wrongfully convicted of a crime. In the opening scene, Richards sits at the controls of an attack helicopter, flanked by three other soldiers. He’s been ordered to strafe a food riot in Bakersfield, California, and kill anything that moves.

Richards is indignant: “I said the crowd is unarmed! There are lots of women and children down there! All they want is food for God’s sake!” (The lines feel like they were written not for a movie but for a Japanese role-playing video game called The Running Man—I imagine Courier-font subtitles spooling out from left to right, waiting for me to press “X” to continue.) The other soldiers massacre the crowd but then frame Richards, who is dubbed “The Butcher of Bakersfield” and thrown into a labor camp. He manages to escape, along with two resistance fighters he meets there, but they’re all later captured and forced to become contestants on the titular game show.

The Schwarzenegger version of “The Running Man” is one of my favorite movies. There’s a deep nineteen-eighties corniness to it, but no easy morality. Most of the characters are trying to make their way through an authoritarian regime in one piece, and don’t have a propulsive interest in changing the world for the better until they’re effectively guaranteed that doing so won’t have a material impact on their lives. Richards won’t kill a bunch of starving children, sure, but he doesn’t become a Runner because he wants to take down the regime, or because he desperately needs money. (When his fellow-escapees try to recruit him into the resistance, he says no, because his only focus is survival.) In this telling, Richards serves as a retributive sacrifice for the authoritarian government—that is, until he goes full Arnold-mode and starts taking out the people who are hunting him, referred to in this movie as “Stalkers.”

The movie was a vehicle for Schwarzenegger’s stardom—he was coming off a string of films that included the “Conan” movies, “The Terminator,” and “Predator,” which turned him into a one-man box-office draw—and Glaser gets the most out of him. Immediately after the helicopter scene, Schwarzenegger walks through a forced-labor metalworks carrying an I-beam; his grapefruit-sized biceps are bursting from the sleeves of a ragged thermal top. He is action figure as actor, which made him the perfect Running Man.

It’s the casting of Richard Dawson, though, that makes the movie tick. Dawson, the slightly lecherous host of the game show “Family Feud” from 1976 to 1985 and again from 1994 to 1995, was best known for kissing all the female contestants on the show. Dawson is a born carnival barker; I was surprised to learn he was English, because the only voice I’ve ever heard come out of him sounded like a proto-megachurch pastor. In the movie, Dawson plays Damon Killian, the host of the “Running Man” competition, and Dawson basically treats it like he’s doing a bonus episode of “Family Feud.” Killian lusts after Richards as a potential contestant like he’s two Martinis deep and eyeballing a steak. When he’s told that he can’t get Richards on the show—military prisoners aren’t allowed to participate—Killian gets on the phone to argue for an exception, his bejewelled pinkie finger lifted delicately off the handset. “Get me the Justice Department, entertainment division,” he says. “No—hold that. Operator, get me the President’s agent.”

The original “Running Man” is a schlocky satire, lampooning the kind old ladies and salarymen who can so easily be turned into bloodthirsty fanatics—when a Stalker has one of Richards’ comrades cornered, the movie cuts to a bar, where a young man shouts, “Kill that son of a bitch!” The new version functions more as a commentary on the modern surveillance state, where everyone with a phone is a potential informant. Powell, who has been on his own action-star run over the past few years, certainly brings more pathos to the character than his predecessor. But Wright’s telling—and, in particular, his cultural critiques—can be a bit obvious and dull. Consider the fictional reality-TV show “The Americanos” that airs on the same channel as “The Running Man” game show. It’s a clear sendup of “Keeping Up with the Kardashians,” but it hews too close to the source material to be interesting as a piece of the dystopian world that Wright is trying to build. Absurdity can be a more effective weapon than plain criticism; just look at the fake TV shows in Paul Verhoeven’s “RoboCop” or Mike Judge’s “Idiocracy.” There’s a difference between satire and pure replication.

Recently, we’ve seen the death game-show concept break containment and enter the real world. Earlier this year, in New York, people could pay forty dollars to participate in the Squid Game Experience, a brand activation where fans could don a numbered jersey and play Red Light Green Light with a giant doll. There was no prize money, and there was also no risk; even if you lost the first game, you could move on to the next one. A deadly game show had become the premise for a midtown escape room. Even still, I was surprised by how many people wanted to reënact, however mildly, the events of a game show where failure means death. I’m not a superstitious person, but when I started to see advertisements for the Squid Game Experience on subway-station walls over the summer, it felt spiritually profane, like some inauspicious symbol.

In 2021, the YouTube mega-influencer Jimmy Donaldson, known as MrBeast, also made a real-life version of “Squid Game,” which has become his most-watched full-length video to date, with nearly a billion views. He recreated many of the challenges from the series, but, instead of executing the losers, he had contestants wear harmless squibs under their uniforms that detonated when they were disqualified. Donaldson’s adaptation successfully inverted satire, turning what was a grim tale about what it means to be desperate in a society with very little hope for improvement into a hollow, earnest piece of entertainment.

Donaldson is a content engineer who optimizes his videos to appeal to YouTube’s algorithm. He has created a cottage industry of these sorts of competitions, slapping provocative titles on each piece of content. A video titled “Would You Risk Dying for $500,000?” starts with a man bound to a chair and locked in a burning shed. We find out very quickly that he’s a professional stuntman, which removes some of the suspense, but the deadly premise and the nearly hundred million views on the video suggest that audiences are enraptured by people putting their actual lives on the line in order to win a ton of money. Nuance and subversion add friction to entertainment; they make you think about what you’re watching. It’s the difference between going out to dinner and ordering a full meal on Uber Eats without leaving your couch.

The American obsession with these games—both the fictional ones and the real-life simulacra—reflects a shift in the national mood to something increasingly zero-sum. The questions posed by MrBeast’s provocative titles also offer an honest assessment of American life, bereft of anything approaching irony or sarcasm. Would you risk dying to escape your lot in life? How much would it take for you to sacrifice everything? As I watched Donaldson’s videos, “The Running Man,” and “Squid Game,” I was reminded of the film “No Country for Old Men,” from 2007, in which the villain, Anton Chigurh, asks the owner of a gas station a simple question: “What’s the most you’ve ever lost on a coin toss?” Chigurh plays his game honestly. Win or die. ♦